Anger rose even higher in Conor’s chest, thumping his heart against his ribcage.
He attacked the monster’s legs, battering the bark with his hands, bringing up bruises almost immediately.
“Heal her! You have to heal her!” Conor, the monster said. “What’s the use of you if you can’t heal her?”
Conor said, pounding away. “Just stupid stories and getting me into trouble and everyone looking at me like I’ve got a disease–”
He stopped because the monster had reached down a hand and plucked him into the air.
You are the one who called me, Conor O’Malley, it said, looking at him seriously.
You are the one with the answers to these questions. “If I called you,” Conor said, his face boiling red,
tears he was hardly aware of streaming angrily down his cheeks, “it was to save her! It was to heal her!”
There was a rustling through the monster’s leaves, like the wind stirring them in a long slow sigh.
I did not come to heal her, the monster said. I came to heal you.
“Me?” Conor said, stopping his squirming in the monster’s hand.
“I don’t need healing. My mum’s the one who’s…” But he couldn’t say it.
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